Roses Are Red

There are certain days of the year that I love. My birthday. Any Bank Holiday. And my all time favourite - Pancake Day. Then there are those I don't really like. Christmas Day. New Years Day. The day after my birthday when I realise I'm a year older. But the one I loathe and hate, regardless of my relationship status, is Valentines Day. The day that plunges 99% of single women into a wallowing state of depression, where they fantasize about beheading roses, and ripping up teddy bears. (Or is that just me?).

I wouldn't mind, but Valentines day seems to start to be advertised pretty much as soon as the Christmas decorations are down. So the spinsters have the heart shaped chocolate boxes and lovey-dovey card displays, rammed down our throat for 2 months before the hell is upon us. Hallmark and Clintons have a lot to answer for. I imagine them living in a Wille Wonka style pink and red factory with little pink oompa lumpa elves skipping and holding hands whilst making up roses are red poems....Meanwhile, in the office on the top floor, the spinster hating valentines devil (heart shaped horns), rubs his hands together, thinking how many single women he will make miserable this year. (One day he will be stabbed with crochet needles, after being jumped by a crack team of spinster assassins, aided by Catty-kins and Fluffy. Super Noodles will be rammed down his throat).

Even the years I have had a boyfriend, it's been an overwhelming disappointment. One year, my dick head boyfriend asked me the address of my work. Subtle? No. When the bunch of red roses arrived, I wasn't overcome with happiness - i was pissed off I had to carry them home on a packed number 73 bus. Then as we had no vase, I had to display them in a Homer Simpson pint glass belonging to our flatmate Jase. Another year, I was bought a huge white fluffy cat. This was when I was the tender age of 16 and hadn't embraced my inner cat lady, and had a gorgeous mongrel dog. The fluffy white cat (which I'm sure was bought from a local news agents) had to be hidden away as my mongrel dog beat the shit out of it whenever he saw it. Mum was worried he'd choke on the fur, so it got hidden in the roof. (Ironically years later we discovered a family of mice living in it - the cat wasn't having a lot of luck, but I enjoyed the irony). Then the last Valentines I was courting, my boyfriend of 2 years bought me a work out DVD, a lighter for the gas hob (sweet in a way - I did tend to burn my fingers) and the greatest hits of Barry White. This was the second time he'd bought me a CD by the walrus of love, and I never knew why. I didn't like Barry white. I never mentioned Barry White. But nevertheless, Bazza sat with his other CD on my rack, unopened, until I moved out. Then they got sold at a car boot I think.

But why do we have to be subjected to the day that makes us feel more lonely than George Bush on his birthday? Well, there are a few theories, all related to Christian martyrs. The most likely is as follows (and this will cheer you all up no end) - "Valentine was a holy priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius II. He was apprehended and sent by the emperor to the prefect of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith ineffectual, sentenced him to be beaten with clubs, and afterwards, to be beheaded. This occurred on February 14, around the year 270." So we celebrate a day when a man was beaten and beheaded, by making 50% of the population feel utterly miserable and lonely? Good work.

Chaucer in 1392 bought the love element in, and since then it's snowballed into a commercial bandwagon, which is second in the gift making money world, only to Christmas. £503 million alone will be spent in the UK this month, on one day. The commerciality has definitely meant that Valentines has lost its meaning and magic. A few older traditions do make me laugh though....
•The first man an unmarried woman saw on 14th February would be her future husband - Two guesses what I'll be doing Valentines morning? Yep watching Ugly Truth and gazing at my future husband. Mrs Gerard Butler. Get in.
•If the names of all a girl's suitors were written on paper and wrapped in clay and the clay put into water, the piece that rose to the surface first would contain the name of her husband-to-be. Crap bag - that's a lot of paper, and I'm no Demi Moore with the clay. A trip to the Thames maybe in order. I will need volunteers to assist. Watson, Walker, and Bacon, at the ready please.
•If a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine’s Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a rich person. - Christ almighty - I live in the country, what happens if all three are on my lawn together? I marry a sailor, to find he's a bit "hello"; so on the rebound, marry a pauper, but dislike the taste of White Lightening and shopping in Aldi, so divorce him for a richy with Italian brogues. I'm gonna be busy.
•In the Middle Ages, young men and women drew names from a bowl to see who their valentines would be. They would wear these names on their sleeves for one week. - This could lead to a lot of confusion, and I'd look a right tool at work with a bit of paper stuck to my arm. More so than the Celine Dion tattoo. Pass me a biro, it's worth a try.
•In Wales wooden love spoons were carved and given as gifts on February 14th. Hearts, keys and keyholes were favourite decorations on the spoons. The decoration meant, "You unlock my heart!" - Most men can't cut bread straight. My love spoon would more likely mean "alright love, got a bit pissed last night and made you this", at which point a chunk of wood will be presented. It'll be a piece of the neighbours fence, which he broke when he fell over drunk.

This year though, I'm being good. As yet, I have failed to administer my annual warning to my staff - "flowers will have their heads ripped off; fluffy toys too; and I'll ram any chocs into your mouth all at once, until your sick". And I have planned to glam up and go sharking with my favourite spinsters, which will no doubt result in no love matches, but plenty of pink champagne, and tutting at loved up couples. There maybe the odd low flying object - if you're on a date in Covent Garden Saturday, please refrain from public displays of smug affection if you don't want Lady Danger and her clan's disdain. Don't say we didn't warn you.

For now, I'll leave you with a little poem left in my last anonymous Valentine a few years back. It was beautiful. "Roses are red, violets are too, a body like yours, belongs in a zoo". That was sent with no irony, and I believe a slight serious intention. Chaucer would be turning in his grave.